Lemon Leaves
by Brass Dragon
Summary: The teacher sat resolute, his lesson given, against a stained wall. “Look.” He commanded with a smile, hands dancing partnerless in the air. “Look at them, bathed in red.”


**Lemon Leaves  
An Exacerbation **_of death_  
_A dip into the morbid by the Brass Dragon

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Hard hope. Crystallized, solidified into something tangible. I had sharp craggy edges, it bit into the flesh of questing hands. Hope hurt, it cut and slashed, even as it fueled desperate moves.

And so, a tired body rested. Hopeless fingers played idly with the fragrant glossy leaves of the lemon tree.

Dark caked fingers twirled stems, causing an exhausted mind to spit out inane memories. "Look at this." He demanded of the wind. Laughing as the glossy green was echoed by his flat lifeless eyes.

Eyes that were once soft and thankful. Thankful for love given, love received, love compounded, love exponential. Unfounding, unquesting, unconditional.

But before that love, after that love, those eyes were hard and cold. Unloved uncaring. Apathy was a virus that fed on his hate. The hate of others, the hate of himself. The inability of others to love him, the inability of himself to attain such love.

He'd proclaimed 'love' overrated, and maybe, perhaps, fictional. Mythical. A figment of lust clouded imaginations.

But then she appeared.

"Look." He commanded of the wind. "Look how pretty."

"I see." She giggled, whipping happy fingers through sturdy branches. "Isn't it beautiful?" She whispered giddily across his skin as foliage tumbled down.

"Yes." He sighed, leaning back against bark that, in his mind, was as soft as her skin. Fingers ran over grass that was a sleek as her hair, and torn knuckles split and crimson spilt.

"I know this face." She had said. "I know it as well as my own." Crying beautifully, happily she had forced herself into his stunned arms. "I love you."

"You don't even know me." He had sputtered, aghast at words he had put little faith in.

"I know you. I've always known you."

"You wouldn't understand!" They had wailed, lost adrift in their self-pity. Hearts screaming to disbelieving minds, their actions just.

"Save yourselves!" Screamed the gods. "We'll not lift a finger."

"I wouldn't understand." He had said. Always polite, always helpful. One had stepped forward, willing to explain, willing him to believe their twisted reason.

"The two of you were orphans, you couldn't comprehend. They would have taken our daughter!" His eyes were streaming apology. Words of regret, begging absolution, left cold turned hard and crashed to an icy floor.

"Oh." He said on a sigh. Nothing more than breath from a corpse. "So you gave them Kanan." It was understanding, and the people eased. Believing they were in the presence of the forgiving.

But forgiveness and absolution were teachings of absent gods, who watched the proceedings from dispassionately from above. "No interference from the divine." He had laughed, and they had smiled with greasy knowing lips.

And he tore them down, soul screaming out; wailing in disbelief. "You will not learn from this, the lesson long since taught!" His blade struck out, not knowing discrimination. Anger ran cold and icy in the place of blood, and his skin ran with red. Sticky and sour, dark and bitter as their black hearts. Their screams led him on, cloying and candy sweet to his ears. They had pulled the plug, the damn had broken and all the raging hate spilled out, pulling everything down in its depths.

"You brought this on yourselves." He assured as he carved her name on the backs of the guilty. "You gave them my sanity when you gave them her." Nails dug into the flesh of unjust bellies. "You thought I could live without her." He reasoned on deaf ears. "But I am nothing without her. I am _this_ without her."

So his knife danced on. Above, about, within. Until the blade grew tired, not knowing why some flesh resisted its touch, why they wept at his work.

The teacher sat resolute, his lesson given, against a stained wall. "Look." He commanded with a smile, hands dancing partnerless in the air. "Look at them, bathed in red."

Blood grew cold, dried crusty and accusing, on sinful flesh. And he rose, seeking the harsh breath that was his own. "Know this," he cursed the lifeless room "I would make orphans of you if I had the chance."

Hair fed on desperation, and grew long. Nails ate determination, and grew sharp. Dead eyes saw none of what he passed. Inconsequential.

He moved, unseen by blind gods, to his destination and a cheerful knife danced anew. Old blood mixed, awash, with new. Cold hands grew colder, to long denied warmth. And his heart ceased to beat, but onward. Forward. Move.

And there she was. Anything. Everything. Something. Nothing. "You're alive." It had been almost to much. She was there, here, everywhere. "Your eye." She had worried as he touched her through the bars. His eye. Eyes. He could see nothing. He was blinded by her light. Pervading. Encompassing. She spoke to static filled ears, and that energetic blade was in her hands. Don't, he wanted to say, but words were unknown, unspoken. And she spilled onto his hands. Warmer than warmth. And his heart beat. Blood flowed, bringing heat. But she was gone. Eyes blank, looking past him. Looking at someone else.

So he struck. Lashed. A whip, uncoiled, extended, and caught. Then pulled taught and cut. Pain furled through him and he welcomed it. Praised it. Colored it with jewels and dressed it in silks. "You're mine. You're my proof that I existed at all."

So he had walked out into the night. Led by his pain. "Come." It said. "This way. It's here." So he followed until his feet could go no further.

And he rested. As she blew around him, and he colored the ground with his brilliance. "You hurt." She had complained, trailing cool fingers over his face. "I love." He corrected, digging hands against his gut, the feeling tangible, flowing happily past his hands.

It played with him. Glistening in the lack of light and the falling water he hadn't noticed. "Look." He pleaded, but they had gone. The pain ran with the water, leaving him behind numb.

"No." he cursed, wailing to the absent wind, but it ran on unheeded. He rose, stumbled forward on unsteady feet, seeking his love, his pain…whichever revealed itself first. But both eluded him, and he stumbled.

Cold. Cold poured into him. Wrapping angry arms around his heart. "Fool." It taunted. "What will you do now?" I'll die, he thought, and I'll find her. The water laughed merrily. "No you won't." It teased. "Look what we found for you!" It cheered. So he did, and saw blood. Red and shocking, spilling over a pair of bony shoulders. And red, pain personified starring down at him curiously. "You can live on pain." Claimed the damp. "It will be the proof of your existence." The mud assured. "Because death may be to good for you." The wind sighed.

"Oi! You dead down there?" The red one asked.

And he smiled. Not yet.

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End file.
